


A measure of time

by VirtualCarrot (Kaoro)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angelic Lore, Asexual Relationship, Canon - Book, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaoro/pseuds/VirtualCarrot
Summary: Humans are ephemeral. Angels are made eternal. Aziraphale wonders where that puts him and feeds the ducks.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	A measure of time

**Author's Note:**

> I found a folder of old GO fics from 2009 (!) (!!!) on my gdrive waiting to be edited and updated.

There are concepts too vast for human understanding.

Immortality, for starters, its reality bound to collapse the mind of the most contemplative philosopher. Memories fighting one another for limited storage space until they shatter to fit places they don't belong. Until the shards fill even the present. Until reality loses shape. Delirium, depression. An infinity of pain. Seeing the end of all things and _surviving it_.

Alone.

There are reasons long-lasting prophets lose sight of their own self, and they catch only a glimpse.

Angels are made to be immortal. Each and every one of them carries a whole universe inside, never-ending, a huge arc of infinity, both blindingly light and dark in its depth. It is their mind. Humans break down with time, degenerate; they don’t. Their memory is a library vast enough to file endless rows of testimonies, shelves after shelves collapsing into and unfolding out of one another, ladders spiraling through time and space; every single recollection available at a moment’s reach. They are observers to existence, knowledgeable in the way of the timeless.

Life doesn’t have that time. Life is a span of pleasure; life is for humans to use, abuse or refuse at will, spurred by the urgency of transience. They see, hear, smell, touch and taste the universe, and most of all they talk back to it. They experience it. After all, it’s all been made for them; everything, created for them to fling their little fragile consciousnesses against until insight springs from the cracks, to destroy and rebuild.

Angels are not made to see, hear, smell, touch or taste the universe, and the schism of the Fall was proof they definitely weren’t intended to talk back to it. The Host came into being only to support Them in Creation, and then to oversee the world then given to Their child, Humanity.

All of these things Aziraphale does, and angels don’t. Sitting on a blanket on the grass in a park, he wonders what they make of him. It’s not a very pleasant thought but not one he can file away quite yet, the ink too fresh for a page turn, so he sighs, lobs a piece of bread at the ducks some feet away and gives into the simple pleasure of an absent-minded bite of it for himself.

It’s cool in his hands but it _tastes_ warm in his mouth, the crust somewhat bitter where the heat of the oven bit a tad too deep. It fills his mouth, and he savors it. For a moment, he’s no longer a sideline witness; for a moment, he joins in the whirlwind of time.

Angels don't age, Aziraphale very much knows.

Then why do the years he has lived—no, not lived, _been_ , as there is no life without death and there is no death awaiting him at the end of all things—there isn't even an _end_ for him actually—why do those years weigh upon him like so many stones?

"You're brooding," a voice says somewhere near.

Aziraphale doesn't quite start, too sluggish with thought, but the crouching presence by his side is as unexpected as it is dear and his face twitches in contentment. He smiles, still looking at the pond and the ducks. His fingers tear the slice of bread in crumbs that fall to the ground between his spread out legs.

Crowley’s hand darts out to hover over his, just long enough to allow the expression of his boundaries. When there are none, he grabs the bread, stands up and throws it in irritation as far away over the water as he can. The ducks flock to it.

"Come on, we're going to the Ritz," he snarls once the bread has disappeared into so many beaks, taking hold of Aziraphale's elbow and urging him up.

The angel blinks up in surprise, smiles wider still, clearly amused. He straightens his back slowly, like an old creature of myth coming to life.

"My dear,” he murmurs, “it's only four in the afternoon. Surely..."

He trails off, demurs. That brings a snort out of Crowley, whose touch on his arm gentles and who cocks an eyebrow, a mocking tilt that comes out too fond. Aziraphale wonders how long he has spent in front of the mirror looking to perfect the motion and figure how high to raise it so it would show behind the sunglasses.

"Time is just a minor detail for us, angel."

Well, when Crowley puts it that way…

Aziraphale picks up the crumbs around him, chucks them away. Most fall into his lap, much to his companion's amusement, and not one goes nearly as far as the slice of bread did. They’re too light. The slight breeze doesn’t help either.

At last he stands, eased by fingers around his elbow, and dusts his clothes, reminded that he’s not so human that his immortality should be lonely. He shares it with Crowley, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [ ShinyHappyGoth ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinyHappyGoth/pseuds/ShinyHappyGoth) for the beta.


End file.
